Conceded
that we overheat our houses and our railroad trains and our hotel
lobbies in America, nevertheless we do heat them. In winter their
interiors are warmer and less damp than the outer air--which is
more than can be said for the lands across the sea, where you have
to go outdoors to thaw.
If there are any outdoor sleeping porches in England I missed them
when I was there; but as regards the ventilation of an English
hotel I may speak with authority, having patronized one. To begin
with, the windows have heavy shades. Back of these in turn are
folding blinds; then long, close curtains of muslin; then, finally,
thick, manifolding, shrouding draperies of some airproof woolen
stuff. At nighttime the maid enters your room, seals the windows,
pulls down the shades, locks the shutters, closes the curtains,
draws the draperies--and then, I think, calks all the cracks with
oakum. When the occupant of that chamber retires to rest he is
as hermetic as old Rameses the First, safe in his tomb, ever dared
to hope to be. That reddish aspect of the face noted in connection
with the average Englishman is not due to fresh air, as has been
popularly supposed; it is due to the lack of it. It is caused by
congestion. For years he has been going along, trying to breathe
without having the necessary ingredients at hand.
At that, England excels the rest of Europe in fresh air, just as
it excels it in the matter of bathing facilities.
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